


Stolen Moments

by Paganpunk2



Category: Father Brown (2013)
Genre: Family, Family Fluff, Family Secrets, Fever, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Homoeroticism, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sick Character, Sickfic, Teasing, Touching, softie sullivan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27799165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paganpunk2/pseuds/Paganpunk2
Summary: Sid is sick, and Sullivan desperately needs to steal a moment with him.  But the presbytery probably isn't the best place to indulge in a cuddle session...
Relationships: Sid Carter/Inspector Sullivan
Kudos: 39





	1. Stressed

Mrs. McCarthy crossed her arms the moment she saw who was standing outside the door of the presbytery. “Inspector,” she sighed, “whatever has gone missing, I can assure you that he has an alibi. He has been upstairs in bed since Tuesday. I helped the Father put him there myself. And no,” she inserted quickly as Sullivan made to open his mouth, “there is no way that he somehow snuck out past me or slipped through the window or whatever else you might be thinking. He’s been far too sick for any of that sort of nonsense.” 

Sullivan knew all these things. Furthermore, he’d anticipated pushback against any attempt he might make to see Sid while he was still under the weather. “I’m well aware that he has an alibi for everything since Tuesday, Mrs. McCarthy.” This was a lie; Sullivan actually knew where Sid had been as far back as early Monday evening, because they’d spent Monday night holed up together in the caravan with a quart of cheap wine and a bottle of massage oil. “But I still need to speak with him.” 

“Surely it can wait until he’s no longer delirious with fever.” 

Delirious with... That was news to Sullivan. He bit the inside of his cheek quickly lest his expression give away the blade of fear that had just slipped into his guts. “He has information that I need,” he pressed. “And time is of the essence.” Especially now, when Sullivan could feel his blood pressure rising with every extra second that he wasn’t able to monitor Sid for himself. 

“No,” said the parish secretary firmly. “I know full well that there is no murder investigation on at the moment. As such, any information Sidney might be able to give you is not a matter of life and death. He needs rest, and you going upstairs and riling him up won’t give him any of that. So I’m sorry, but you will just have to come back later.” 

“Mrs. McCarthy, this is-” 

The words ‘interfering with police business’ died on his tongue as the door clicked shut in his face. They wouldn’t have worked even if she hadn’t walked away from him. If there was anything the presbytery crew had no compunctions about, it was interfering with police business. Anyway, he wouldn’t have dared to seriously threaten her with a charge. There was no police business at hand, just personal business, and Sullivan knew better than to push his authority act too far. Mrs. McCarthy wouldn't let it drop if she caught wind of some ulterior motive for his attempt to get to Sid, and discovery, by her or by anyone, would be a disaster. 

Close on discovery’s heels in terms of alert levels was Sullivan’s current situation. He simply _had_ to get inside. He hadn’t slept a wink in forty-eight hours, since he’d overheard Sergeant Goodfellow catching up on the normal Wednesday morning gossip with one or another of the constables. 

“You know Sid Carter walked into town looking like death warmed over last night?” the constable had ventured. 

“Did he, now?” Sergeant Goodfellow had sounded moderately concerned, a fact which had driven Sullivan’s anxiety straight into overdrive. “It’s not like him to take ill. But so long as he made it to the church...?” 

“Oh, they hustled him into the presbytery quick enough, for sure. Haven’t heard anything since, though.” 

“Well, I suppose no news is good news.” 

“Suppose so.” 

Sullivan didn’t subscribe to that theory. In his world, no news was worse than bad news. At least bad news gave a person an idea of what might be on the horizon and of how best to proceed towards an improvement. No news left you in the dark, groping blindly for answers and with no concept of how much or how little worry was warranted. When there’d been no news, words like ‘delirious with fever’ were a hundred times more dreadful than they might otherwise have been. 

If only Sid had come to the police cottage instead of the presbytery. How that would have worked out in real life was something that Sullivan couldn’t imagine, since there was no way he could actually have stayed there if he _had_ come. But envisioning a perfect world in which Sullivan could take time from work (sorry, Chief Inspector, but my – boyfriend? Lover? Something, some label that would somehow, magically, legitimize them to the rest of society – caught a bug and I’m losing my mind over it) to hover, fret, spoon broth, smooth covers, and have a fit every time Sid so much as twitched like he might try to get out of bed helped a little. A _very_ little, but a little. 

“Good afternoon, Inspector.” 

For what was possibly the first time ever, Sullivan was pleased to hear Father Brown’s voice. If anyone could get him past the watchdog that was Mrs. McCarthy, it was the Father. “Father Brown,” he said, whirling away from his study of the presbytery door. “I...” He gulped. “I need your help with something.” 

“Of course. I’d be happy to assist you in any way that I can. In fact, your timing is serendipitous; I have a favor of my own to ask.” Father Brown smiled then, and reached past Sullivan to turn the knob. “Please, come in.” 

Mrs. McCarthy bustled into the kitchen with a tray in her hands as they entered the room from the other end. “Not hungry,” she announced when she spotted the priest. “Have you ever heard such an absurdity come out of his mouth before? And it’s his favorite, besides.” She deposited the tray on the kitchen table, then looked up and saw Sullivan. Her nostrils flared. “Now _really_ , Inspector, I told you that he is in no fit state for-” 

“I invited Inspector Sullivan in, Mrs. McCarthy,” Father Brown stopped her. 

“I understand, Father, but he wants to interrogate him about something or other. Surely that can wait.” Mrs. McCarthy gestured helplessly at the still-full bowl on the tray. “It can’t be necessary to question him when he’s not even _eating_. A bit of mercy on the poor boy seems in order to me.” 

Sullivan almost felt bad for pressing his cause now that he saw Mrs. McCarthy’s genuine distress. Had he been feeling any less distraught himself, he might have backed down. If anything, though, the addition of the not-eating factor made him more determined than ever to leverage his advantage. “I’ll be as fast as I can,” he promised, “but I have to do this, Mrs. McCarthy. The sooner you let me upstairs, the sooner I’ll be out of your way.” 

“He wasn’t even really awake when I left him. What you think you can get out of him like that, I’m sure I don’t know.” 

“Well, that’s not necessarily a bad thing,” Father Brown put in. “If it takes the Inspector a little longer than usual to ask Sid his questions, it will give you and me more time to visit the Foresters. That was the favor I intended to ask of you, Inspector,” the Father went on. “We have a double christening coming up for their new twins, and these things always go more smoothly when Mrs. McCarthy is involved in the planning. I knew she wouldn’t want to leave Sid here by himself, but if you need to speak with him anyway...you won’t mind staying until we return, will you?” 

Sullivan was seized by a mad urge to embrace the priest. This was even better than he could have hoped for. He’d thought he was going to have to stay distant and cool, to restrain himself to a few pointless questions while either Father Brown or Mrs. McCarthy lingered behind him. Now he would be able to drop his act and be himself once they’d gone. 

“I suppose I can stay.” He grimaced and tried to look put-upon. “I mean, I have other things to do this evening, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t take all day, but this does seem to be convenient for everyone.” 

“Excellent,” Father Brown beamed. “Mrs. McCarthy? We’re already running late.” 

“Oh...yes, but...” She reached up to check her hair, then glanced down at the full tray again. “I do _not_ like this, Father Brown.” 

“I know, Mrs. McCarthy. But it will work out all right in the end, I believe, if we give it a chance.” 

“But to leave when he’s tossing and turning like he is...when he won’t even eat...it just isn’t Sidney at _all_...” 

“You heard the doctor as clearly as I did when he said that a lack of appetite has been a common side effect of this flu.” Father Brown caught Sullivan’s eye as he urged Mrs. McCarthy towards the door. Something shone there – compassion, maybe? Reassurance? – that Sullivan couldn’t recall ever having aimed at him by the priest before. “In a day or two you won’t be able to re-fill his bowl fast enough.” 

“I know what the doctor said, Father, but still...Inspector,” Mrs. McCarthy turned back to beg, “will you take the soup back up with you and try to get some of it in him? You never know what might work in cases like this.” 

“I...ah...” Sullivan wrinkled his nose slightly, hoping that it would come off as distaste at her request rather than as the impatience for her to leave that it really was. “...If you insist.” He had to concentrate hard not to shoo them out. Hurry up, hurry up and go... 

“Oh, bless you, Inspector,” said Mrs. McCarthy. “All right, Father, if we must go, then let us go, so we can come back. Though I still don’t like it...” 

The parish secretary had finally gone, but now Father Brown hesitated. “...One more thing, Inspector...” 

All he had to do was close the door. Just close it, close it and get out, so that Sullivan could sprint up the stairs before the awful pressure building up in his throat released itself as a frustrated scream. “What?” he ground out. 

“I just wanted to say, please make yourself at home.” 

The door shut then, but instead of bolting, Sullivan stood riveted in place. Had he just been on the receiving end of a _wink_? Surely not. Why would Father Brown be winking at him, of all people? That was a shibboleth that was reserved for members of his little cadre and the occasional outsider he took a shine to, not for pushy policemen who came barging into the presbytery on flimsy pretenses. 

His puzzling was cut off by a thud and a yelp from overhead. All thoughts of anything other than what Sid had just done to himself evaporated as Sullivan flew towards the sound. The stairs passed under his feet two at a time. At the top of them he found three doors. One clearly led into a bathroom, the second was shut tight, and the third bled bright afternoon light into the hall. Sullivan chose this entrance, and dashed inside. 

Sid was in the process of pushing himself off the floor. It wasn’t going well. For starters, the bedding was so tangled around him that every move tightened his accidental bonds. He’d landed at an awkward angle, with his side and shoulder pressed against the carpet and his feet suspended in the air between the bed and the rug. His expression was dazed, and his motions suggested that he wasn’t entirely sure which way was up. “Stop,” Sullivan bade as he knelt beside him. “Sid. Stop. You’re going to make it worse.” 

“...Did I fall out of bed?” 

“Yes. Stop,” he ordered again as Sid reached out for leverage. Sullivan encased the searching hand in one of his own, then leaned in to brush a lock of madly tousled dark hair back from Sid’s forehead. He really _was_ quite warm. “Did you hurt yourself?” 

“Dunno. Don’t think so.” He let out a contented moan as Sullivan’s palm flattened against his cheek. “That’s nice. Cool.” 

A glance upward revealed the presence of a bowl and a folded washcloth on the nightstand. “We can do better than that. Hold still.” 

One arm under his shoulders, another behind his knees, and in a moment Sullivan had lifted Sid back onto the mattress. The sheets were still snaked around him, but at least he was off the floor. 

“D’n know you could do that,” came a murmur. 

“Do what?” Sullivan was trying to undo the bed linens, but they seemed to have woven themselves into a single continuous knot. How Sid hadn’t dislocated something with his tumble was a mystery. In fact, Sullivan decided, he wasn’t going to take the other man’s drowsy word for it. It just seemed too unlikely to be true. 

“Lift me.” Sid’s cracked lips bent into a smile. “Keeping that in mind.” 

“I’d rather you didn’t fall down again, so there’d be no need for me to pick you up.” 

“You say that like you didn’t like it.” 

“Like I didn’t like what?” 

“Me in your arms.” 

Sullivan caught his breath at that. He’d perched on the edge of the mattress to work, his hips even with Sid’s; now he leaned forward over him, supporting himself on his forearms. They touched nowhere, except when well-timed inhalations brought the lapels of Sullivan’s suit jacket into brief contact with Sid’s half-hiked undershirt. “You know I did,” he whispered. “You know I do. But falling down means something’s wrong. And I don’t like that.” 

“Mm. I do, though.” The single arm that Sullivan had managed to free from the sheets rose, and Sid carded his fingers through his hair with uncharacteristic clumsiness. “’F being sick makes you go all softie on me like this, might make it a more regular thing.” 

“Absolutely out of the question,” Sullivan replied, appalled. “You’re never allowed to be sick again.” 

“Illegal now, is it?” 

“It is in your case.” Sullivan wondered if Sid would actually remember any of this later on, when he was feeling better. It didn’t matter; he’d remind him as necessary. “Now shut up and let me take care of you.” 

A dopey and obscenely happy look settled onto Sid’s face. “Mmm...yeah. That.”


	2. Spellbound

For once, there was time. Their stolen moments together were always rushed, full of stripped-off clothes and needy groping and words that matched their thrusts for roughness. Even Monday, when for the first time they’d dared to spend an entire night together, had felt frenetic. There was too much to do when they found themselves alone with one another, too many things to say, too many places to touch. 

Now, though, there was only one focus, and Sullivan was in charge. He could be as slow and deliberate as he wanted this afternoon, because Sid was in no state to object. If he got carried away by a moment it would be entirely his own fault, not the result of his partner overwhelming him with a tidal wave of hormones like usual. 

He shrugged his suit jacket off and hung it neatly on the back of the desk chair. Next he rolled his sleeves up to the elbow. Then, finally, he sat back down on the edge of the mattress in the same place he’d occupied before. His hand ghosted across Sid’s overheated brow. “Are you still awake?” 

“...Mm...” 

Sort of, then. It was the work of a moment to wet the washcloth, wring it out, and draw it gently along the flushed skin below Sid’s jaw. “Don’t move,” he instructed as he re-folded the cloth and left it draped on his forehead. “You’ll get the pillows wet.” 

The complete compliance with which that directive was met was almost disturbing. Sullivan tried not to think about it too hard as he returned to the snarled bedding. He worked his way up, untangling Sid’s ankles, then his knees, then his hips. His fingers tested each juncture as he freed it, certain that something had to have been twisted out of place by the weird web he’d been suspended in. 

When he found no obvious damage, Sullivan allowed his touch to go from searching to studious. He knew what Sid’s legs felt like when they were wrapped around him in a fit of passion, but he’d never traced their lines in calmer moments. Now he admired the curve of a well-turned calf, slipped his hand up under loose pajamas to stroke the sleek, hairless bend at the back of one knee, and hummed contentedly when his tickling inspired a twitch. Gorgeous, though it would have been better if Sid had been able to enjoy the moment with him. 

With one arm already freed, it took little time to finish unwrapping the rest of Sid’s torso. Here, too, Sullivan indulged in exploration. Lax muscles linked the loose, flexible joints that allowed Sid to slink along like a hunting cat when he wanted to. Running the pad of his thumb along a bicep, Sullivan recalled the first time he’d felt a flare of physical need for the man in the bed. It had been at a cricket practice, his very first in Kembleford, back when he’d still had Sid marked down as the bane of his existence. He’d been at bat, and had hit what should have been a six, easily. It _would_ have been a six, and a damn fine way to introduce himself, except that Sid had taken an impossible, twisting, lynx-like leap from the sweeper’s position and caught the ball before it could cross the boundary. Sullivan hadn’t even been mad, the thing was so beautifully done. 

Beautifully done... His hand slipped down the inside of Sid’s elbow, across his side, and then up beneath his still-skewed undershirt. Here were lines that Sullivan knew better, not from in-depth scrutiny but from brief, repetitive contact. The low ridge of his sternum, rising and falling with each quiet breath he took; the swell of his firm, but not over-developed, pectorals; the short cliffs where his chest hair trailed off as his skin dipped into the shallow bowls of his clavicles. Fantasyland. 

“Don’t you dare stop,” came a whisper as he pulled back. 

Sullivan retrieved the washcloth and re-wetted it before he replied. “I think,” he said, meeting Sid’s half-lidded gaze, “that you’re forgetting where we are.” 

“Wherever we are, you’re a bloody tease.” Sid groaned as cool water was spread from his temple to the notch of his throat. “...Where’re we at, anyway?” 

Jesus. He hadn’t seemed delirious before – in fact, Sullivan had been starting to think that Mrs. McCarthy’s worry had driven her to exaggeration – but that question suggested otherwise. All the touching he’d just relished suddenly felt clandestine, almost dirty. “The presbytery, Sid. Remember? You’ve been here for three days now.” 

“Three days?” 

“Yes.” 

A line appeared between Sid’s eyebrows. “...But you’re here. Doing...that.” 

“Yes.” 

Sid’s eyes popped fully open. “Get out,” he hissed. “Before they catch you! Go!” 

Sullivan caught the hand that was trying to push him away. “Sid. It’s all right. They’re not here. They’re not here,” he repeated gently. “It’s safe.” 

Calm crept over them. “It’s...safe?” 

“Yes.” 

“They’re not here? Neither of them?” 

“They’re not here. They left me to watch you.” 

“They know?!” 

“They know I’m here. That’s all. Don’t worry, I made it clear that I found the prospect of babysitting your sorry self perfectly odious.” 

“Yeah, you’re pretty good at that.” His eyelids fluttered, and for a moment Sullivan thought he was about to lapse back into silence. Then: “...you were worried.” 

“...Yes.” 

“It’s fine, though. ‘M here.” 

“I know.” 

“Here or Montague, I’d’ve been okay.” 

“I _know_.” 

“But you risked coming.” 

“Sid, I had to!” Sullivan gripped Sid’s hand tightly. “I...I didn’t know what was going on. You were fine when I left the caravan on Tuesday morning. The next thing I heard, you’d stumbled into the church looking awful and been whisked away to bed here.” 

Sid blinked at him for a long moment before he pulled his hand free and reached upward. “It’s just a flu,” he said. His fingertips grazed the flesh just below Sullivan’s eyes. “It’s just a flu, but y’haven’t been sleeping.” 

“I didn’t _know_ it was just a flu! For all I knew, Father Brown was spending his free time writing your eulogy! There was no news yesterday, or this morning, and I didn’t dare actually _ask_ anyone. I couldn’t stand it. I had to see you, even if it was just to pose a few made-up questions. Even if all I learned was that you were still alive.” 

“Course I’m alive. Not going...anywhere.” His hand fell back to the mattress, where it closed on Sullivan’s wrist. 

Sullivan heaved a deep sigh that he hadn’t known he was holding in. For all that Sid was obviously not teetering on the edge of mortal peril, it was a relief to hear him say as much out loud. “...I’m supposed to try and get some of Mrs. McCarthy’s soup into you.” 

“Not hungry.” 

The parish secretary had been right when she’d said it was absurd to hear those words come out of Sid’s mouth. Sullivan’s eyebrows knit. “That doesn’t lend much credence to the idea that you’re not dying.” 

“Heh.” The fingers on Sullivan’s wrist tightened. “Not hungry. Not dying. Just tired.” A tug, like Sid wanted him closer. “Come down here.” 

Sullivan bent, kissed him, and sat back up. Sid frowned. “No. Lay down with me.” 

“Sid, I told you where we are-” 

“Yeah. Y’also told me no one’s here but us.” Another tug. “You’re tired, too. ‘F you don’t get some rest, you’ll be the one sick next. And I don’t think anyone’ll be fooled by me saying I’ve got to see you about some pressing questions.” 

Monday had been the first time they’d stolen more paired slumber than a brief post-coital nap. Sullivan had never had a better night’s rest in his life. It was probably the only reason he’d been able to go since then on so little shut eye. The prospect of sleeping together again, not in the carnal sense (though, if Sid had been just a little less unwell, Sullivan would have been willing to try) but in the communal one, was a siren’s call. He wanted to give in to it, but the risk... 

“You’ll hear them come back,” Sid murmured. “Old houses are noisy.” Tug, tug. “...C‘mon, Tommy. Please?” 

There was nothing for it; he couldn’t resist that soft entreaty. He would stretch out beside Sid, he decided, and hold him, but he wouldn’t sleep. They still had time, and he would use it well. Maybe the memory of the warm weight in his arms would be enough to let him pass out for a few hours tonight, when he was once more alone in his own cold room. 

His wrist was still locked in the circle of Sid’s hand. Rather than walk around the bed and break the connection, Sullivan made to crawl over the other man. Once he was straddling him, he paused and looked down. Sid smirked as the pressure on his hips penetrated his feverish brain. “...Imma owe you for all this teasing.” 

Sullivan smiled and dropped to the mattress beside him. “You know,” he purred as Sid rolled in close and buried his head beneath his chin, “on second assessment, I think you’ll live, after all.”


	3. Scared

He really hadn’t meant to let his eyes close. Doing so here, like this, was foolhardy, stupid. It endangered everything they’d started to build in secret together, and risked their entire lives as individuals, too. It was the most idiotic thing he’d ever done, except falling for Sid to begin with. He didn’t regret that first step now, of course, but as Sullivan jerked awake into dusky twilight he was certain that nothing could ever make him glad that he’d succumbed to the temptation of sleep. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” he insisted as soon as he saw Father Brown leaning over them. Sullivan tried to rise, but the arm he’d been pillowing Sid’s head with was half-numb. “I’m sure this looks – well, awful – but it’s not-” 

“Shh,” the priest hushed him quietly. “Inspector. Please. You’ll wake him.” 

Sullivan turned his attention back to the man he’d just been caught in bed with. Sid was still blissfully unaware of their predicament. The tossing and turning that had landed him on the floor a few hours earlier had been replaced by a childlike repose that made something in Sullivan’s chest clench protectively. He looked so innocent that, had it not been for a hint of five o’clock shadow, Sullivan might have felt like a pedophile for the way his free hand was resting so comfortably on his exposed waist. 

He clamped his eyes shut. He couldn’t lose this. “...Father Brown...” 

The Father sighed. “I was going to suggest that you go back to sleep,” he whispered. “That’s what the blanket was for.” Sure enough, Sullivan could now see that he’d been wakened by the motions inherent in a tucking-in. “But since you seem to feel the need to talk sooner rather than later, let’s move downstairs. He’s restful enough to be left alone for a little while.” 

Sullivan extracted himself carefully. Just before he rose, he glanced once more at his partner. He ached to drop one last kiss on his lips – because surely, surely this would be the last time such a thing was possible, how could they ever risk it again even if he somehow managed to explain their way out of this mess? – and even started to dip back down for that very purpose before he caught himself. Stupid. God, he was so _stupid_. Couldn’t he keep his hands off the man for five seconds? Long enough at least to maybe, just maybe, save them both? 

Father Brown closed the bedroom door soundlessly behind them, then led Sullivan down the stairs without words. “Have a seat, Inspector,” he gestured when they reached the kitchen. Sullivan sat, then busied himself with rolling his sleeves back down, smoothing the wrinkles that had set in, and buttoning the cuffs. Only when a steaming bowl was set in front of him did he look up. “Mrs. McCarthy’s chicken and dumpling soup,” said the Father, “is capable of rendering an improvement to almost any ill.” 

Somehow, Sullivan didn’t think it was going to do much for his attraction to other men. “I’m not very hungry at the moment, Father,” he managed. 

“I see. Well...” Father Brown lifted the spoon from his own bowl and took a leisurely sip of broth. “...At least we won’t have to get an extra bed in if you’re coming down with Sid’s flu.” 

It took Sullivan a moment to realize that his mouth was hanging open. “You...” _You call it that?_ he almost asked. “...You didn’t see what you might have thought you saw.” 

“I certainly didn’t see what I expected to see,” Father Brown allowed. He took another sip. “Then again, I’ve never seen him, or you for that matter, truly in love before. So I suppose I didn’t know what I should have been expecting.” He glanced up at Sullivan then, and chuckled. “You know, Inspector, if you’re going to have your mouth open anyway, you might as well put some of your soup into it. Even if you aren’t feeling terribly hungry.” 

Sullivan pressed his balled fists hard against his temples. “There’s no point in even denying it to you, is there?” 

“Not really, no. All that will do is let your dinner get cold.” Father Brown gestured at Sullivan’s bowl. “Please, Inspector. Eat. You look pale.” 

“I can’t.” If anything, he was about to throw up. “Unless you’ve poisoned it, I can’t.” That wouldn’t be the worst solution in the world, though he didn’t relish it. Father Brown had solved enough crimes that he should be able to cover one up quite easily, and Sullivan trusted that he would protect Sid to the end of his days. At least one of them would be safe. 

“No poison. Although I can pass the pepper, if you’d like. Oh,” the priest leaned in, “a word to the wise; don’t add seasonings to Mrs. McCarthy’s food when she can see you doing it. She’s an excellent cook, of course, but she takes individual palate preferences a little too personally.” 

The room was spinning. Maybe he _was_ coming down with Sid’s flu, after all. “What are you talking about?” 

“Well, I assume – I hope – that tonight’s won’t be the last dinner you eat at this table. I thought it best to arm you ahead of time in case you’re the kind of person who, oh, I don’t know, always salts their main course. That’s no crime, of course, except in Mrs. McCarthy’s book.” 

“Why do you think I would suddenly start taking meals here?!” 

Father Brown tilted his head and fixed Sullivan with a mildly disappointed gaze. “Come now, Inspector. Didn’t we just agree not to dissemble?” 

“Who’s dissembling?” Sullivan stabbed one hand towards the ceiling, then turned it down to indicate himself. “Salting your mains isn’t a crime, Father, but this... _us_...is.” 

“The laws of man are generally admirable and useful,” the priest said as he chased a dumpling with his spoon, “but they do have their flaws.” 

Sullivan crossed his arms. “And the laws of God? Are they flawed, too?” 

Father Brown had caught his dumpling. As he chewed it, he leaned back in his chair. He thought for a moment, and then his eyes crinkled nostalgically. “You know, it’s funny,” he mused. “Sid asked me the exact same question a few months ago. It struck me as a bit out of the blue – he's not usually one for theological ponderings – but I assumed he had his reasons. 

“I’ll tell you what I told him. I do _not_ believe that the laws of God are flawed. But I do believe that man’s interpretation of God’s laws can be, and often is.” 

“...I’m not sure that I understand,” Sullivan admitted. 

“Neither am I, frankly. It’s a huge concept that is probably beyond the scope of humanity to truly grasp. But what I believe – what I feel that I know – is this: we rely on the works of God for our faith. The works of God are perfect. But time and distance separate us, as individuals, from many of those works, including the most fundamental ones.” 

“You mean the Bible.” 

“Among others, yes. This separation is bridged by men. Men, as we‘ve just discussed, are fallible. Sometimes, despite our best efforts, we get things wrong, or we’re misunderstood. And sometimes, those errors are replicated, and carried down, and translated into the laws of man in ways that are very different from the original intentions.” He paused. “Does that make more sense?” 

Sullivan swallowed hard. “You don’t...see it as a sin?” 

“I do not see how the complete and utter affection and care that I witnessed upstairs a short while ago could ever be considered a sin, whether in that particular manifestation or any other the two of you might come up with.” Father Brown sipped another spoonful of broth. “Do you?” 

...Damn. He was _good_. Sullivan had thought it many, many times before, always grudgingly, but he really had to give it to him in this instance. “I’m biased,” he answered shortly. “In more ways than one.” 

“True. But then, we all are. For instance, I know that when Sid asked me about the laws of God being flawed, he wasn‘t really looking for God’s opinion on the matter. He was looking for mine. But that doesn‘t make me any less happy that he asked. It should; but it doesn’t.” Father Brown smiled softly. “Quite the contrary, in fact.” 

“I’m afraid that yours is a rare opinion." 

“It seems to be, yes. I know I don’t have to tell you that having nothing to fear from me doesn’t mean that you can let your guard down elsewhere. Even Mrs. McCarthy and Lady Felicia, whom I have no doubt will be your allies when they discover what’s going on – and it will be a when, not an if, because they are both too close to him and know him too well not to realize the truth at some point – shouldn’t be rushed into the fold. The longer that the fewer people know, the better. Regardless, though, Inspector,” Father Brown caught his gaze, and held it, “this is a safe space. For both of you, together or apart.” 

He hated it when his eyes burned like this in a place where other people might see. “...It’s...Thomas,” Sullivan whispered, blinking rapidly. “No...” He shook his head. “Tom. Don’t call me Thomas.” Thomas was what his father called him, never abbreviating, never joking, never palling around. Never being half as open and caring as Father Brown had been tonight. “You can’t know my darkest secret and go on calling me ‘Inspector,’ at least not in private. Tom will do.” 

“All right, Tom,” the Father nodded. He held out his hand. “Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I suspect that your appetite may have returned to the point where it would be worthwhile if I re-heated your soup.” 

Sullivan couldn’t help but laugh as he passed his still-full bowl across the table. “Apparently I’m not sick after all.” 

“No,” Father Brown assured him. “Not at all.”


	4. Safe

Sometime later, they were back outside of the door behind which Sid was still slumbering. “I should leave before dawn,” Sullivan said. 

“Will five be early enough? I can wake you when I get up. There is an alarm in there,” Father Brown frowned, “but-” 

But Sullivan was shaking his head. “I don’t want to risk disturbing him with it. Five will be fine.” He’d have two hours to walk back to the cottage, shower, shave, and change clothes before he left for the station. Once again, plenty of time. 

“Then I’ll wake you then.” 

Father Brown made to turn away. “Wait,” Sullivan said. 

“...Something else, Tom?” 

“It’s...I’ve been wondering something.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Earlier...” 

The priest waited patiently. 

“...Did you...wink at me? Before you and Mrs. McCarthy left?” 

“I did, yes.” 

“But I thought you didn’t know until you came back.” 

“I didn’t,” Father Brown concurred. “But I did have a suspicion. Not a strong one – I honestly didn’t realize how far things had already gone between the two of you until I found you together – but a strong enough one to risk the wink.” 

“What gave me away?” He asked not just from curiosity, but for the sake of safety. If he knew his own tells when it came to Sid, he could hide them better in the future. 

“You asked for my help. That was rare enough by itself, but then when that help was clearly with getting past Mrs. McCarthy to see Sid...” 

“...Oh.” It had been a quiet week in Kembleford, at least compared to normal. In retrospect, his pretext really had been very flimsy. “You’re right, that was rather obvious.” 

“Don’t feel bad about it. You were worried. Hadn’t slept well in a night or two, perhaps.” Father Brown squeezed his shoulder and pushed him gently towards the bedroom door. “Good night, Tom.” 

“Good night. And...ah...thank you.” 

“You're very welcome.” 

Sid stirred when Sullivan sat down beside him. “You...what...what time is it?” He tried to rise, but Sullivan held him down with one hand. “It’s dark. They’re still not back?!” 

“Shh. Sid. It’s fine.” 

“But-!” 

“They’re back. It’s all right.” 

“What do you mean it’s-” 

Sullivan silenced him with a kiss. Sid dropped back onto the pillows and blinked up at him. “...I’m confused, Tommy.” 

“I know. But it’s all right.” 

“How?!” 

“It just is. I promise.” When Sid didn’t look soothed by that, Sullivan sighed. “Mrs. McCarthy went straight home from the Foresters. I don’t know how Father Brown managed to convince her, but he did. So she’s not here.” 

“But he is.” 

“He is.” Sullivan ran a hand along Sid’s forehead, then down over his cheek. “...You’re warm again,” he said, and reached for the washcloth. 

“What about the- Ooh. That’s nice.” Sid’s eyelids fluttered as water beaded on his skin. “...The Father?” 

“He said you two would talk tomorrow. Or whenever you feel up for it.” 

“You mean he knows?!” 

“Yes. He does. I didn’t hear him come in, and he...found us together.” 

The strength that Sid had lacked when he’d been trying to sit up suddenly returned. He gripped Sullivan’s arm tightly, his eyes wide. “Is he...I mean, did he...?” 

“What?” 

“Is he...you know...disappointed?” 

“...Sid, you already know that answer to that. Of course he isn’t.” 

“You’re _sure_?” 

“I’m certain, Sid.” A relieved sigh sounded. Sullivan’s arm was freed, and he returned to his wipe-down. “...In fact, I got the sense that he was rather pleased.” 

“Oh, well...” Sid’s moment of strength had been short-lived. He yawned, then closed his eyes. “He likes you, even if you do threaten to arrest him every now and then.” 

That particular proclivity, Sullivan thought with a happy laugh, seemed to run in this odd little family that he’d stumbled into. 

“...S’funny?” 

“Nothing. Go to sleep.” 

“Staying?” 

“Yes. I’m staying.” He needed to get up long enough to undress at least a little bit, but then he’d be back. 

Except that Sid had laced their fingers together, settled their woven hands on his stomach, and was clearly already diving towards sleep. Sullivan took in the tiny, precious smile on his lips, then groaned. There was no way he could pull free from that look. He was just going to have to sleep as he was. “All right,” he breathed as he snuggled in tight, “you win. But only because you’re sick. Don’t get used to always having your way.” 

As he, too, closed in on slumber, he would have sworn he felt Sid chuckle.


End file.
